


Phases of Life

by trustingHim17



Series: Rekindling Hope [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Announcements, Gen, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: "Why is it, that so often when I try to surprise you, I end up hurting you instead?"
Series: Rekindling Hope [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776541
Kudos: 11





	Phases of Life

_“…Climbing to the top of the mainmast, he took the knife from between his teeth and started sawing at the tangled line. If he could not lower the mainsail, the wind could easily capsize them.”_

“Watson.”

I held up a finger, asking for a moment to finish this paragraph.

It was a quiet day in Baker Street. Holmes had been out for most of the morning, doing I knew not what, and I had been reading a sea novel for several hours. I had just reached the climax, and I had no wish to stop quite yet when Holmes’ voice held none of the impatience tying to a case.

I finished the paragraph—and the chapter—a moment later and looked up. Holmes sat in the chair across from me, fidgeting, and I frowned.

“What is it, Holmes?”

He opened his mouth, fidgeted, closed it, then finally got out, “Pack a small bag and come with me?”

I stared at him for a moment, wondering why he was so nervous. I had no plans. He knew I had deliberately planned nothing for the day, wanting a quiet evening after the chaos of the case the previous week. Why was he acting as if I would be angry at the request?

“How many nights?” I asked.

Relief flashed across his gaze, and his normal energy resumed. “We should be back tonight, but an overnight bag might be wise.”

Enjoining me to hurry, he ducked into his own room as I mounted the stairs, wondering what case had found him wherever he had gone today as I threw a few things into a bag.

Well accustomed to Homes’ last-minute tendencies, I was back down the stairs in only a few minutes, and he led me to a waiting cab. The ride passed in silence, he deep in thought and I content to wait until a pothole did not interfere with every word, and the cabbie let us off at the train station, where we caught the eleven thirty headed south.

“Where are we going?” I finally asked as we settled into the compartment.

He barely looked in my direction, more focused on digging his pipe out of his valise. “Better to see when we get there.”

I leaned back, staring at him as I tried to decipher what trouble he had found. He had none of the usual energy of a case, but he also was not fidgeting the way he did when he was doing something he would rather not. If he had been anyone else, I would have thought he carried the air of someone about to go on holiday, but I knew better. Holmes hated both holidays and travel. To him, they were the only thing worse than the time between cases. I gave up after several minutes, resigned to being unable to read him, and tried another question.

“Holmes, do we have a case?” If we had a case, I would much rather he tell me than keep it to himself. He knew I preferred to not go into a case blind, and he had even admitted once that I was more help when I had time to think over the details before jumping into any of our cases.

He shook his head but refused to answer any further questions, and I turned to the window, watching the scenery pass as I counted the stations in an attempt to figure out where we could be going. He had said we would probably be back tonight, so we were not crossing the channel, but south of London quickly opened up to scenic countryside. There had been very few cases out this way, but I could think of no other reason for the last-minute travel, despite his claims to the contrary.

We got off at the Sussex station, and I grew wary, memories of a seaside vacation with Mary coming to the fore. We had rented a small cottage not very far from this station, and for me, memories of my wife permeated the area. I did not recall telling Holmes about that trip, however, so I rather doubted that it had anything to do with our visit, though it did have the potential to sour whatever he had planned. I was unprepared to deal with the precious memories of my wife. I had packed those away long ago, rarely to be taken out and inspected, and then only in the privacy of our rooms. I would not want to remember here, where I could be seen.

He frowned at my reaction but said nothing, only leaving the platform and leading the way down a road.

“Holmes?” I asked, my question apparent in my voice and my pace.

“It is not far,” he assured me. “Only just around the bend.”

My wariness grew. Was he about to lead me to that small cottage? Why in the world _would_ he? I had never told him of our trip, and the photo journal I had let him see a handful of times had no references to this area. The photographer had been three stations north.

We had not yet gone far enough to reach the place I remembered from that wonderful trip when Holmes turned off the main road to follow a narrow path, and I relaxed minutely. I had no wish to revisit that old cottage. The memories I had of it were painful, or painfully pleasant, depending upon how much I missed my wife and child, and an impromptu trip to the place of so many cherished memories was not an idea I fancied. If I ever returned, it would only be after several days of getting used to the idea and preparing myself to see Mary alive again in my surroundings. There was a reason I rarely walked through Kensington.

The path was short, and we had barely left the sight of the main road when the path opened, revealing a small cottage facing the sea. Holmes beckoned me closer, his excitement at what he was showing me mixing with an uncharacteristic hesitance, and I wondered why he was so nervous about showing me a cottage.

Ignoring yet another question of why we were here, Holmes showed me around the small cottage and the grounds. He kept a running commentary that was almost as strange as his obvious nervousness, describing this cottage in comparison to another much further down the road that he had also seen and claiming that this one had easier access to the sea. He stopped his monologue only when we had seen everything from the ocean view in the front to the flower-covered meadows in the back, leading me to a stone bench overlooking the meadow.

“What do you think?” He kept his gaze on the meadow in front of us, apparently fascinated with the flowers and pollinating insects, and I hesitated, trying to figure out what he was really asking.

“It is a nice place,” I finally answered, “but I still do not understand why we came.”

He fidgeted, worrying at his sleeves and shifting in his seat on the bench. He obviously had been hoping I would discover his intent without him voicing it, but I had never picked up more than the basics of his methods. I waited, willing to give him time to find the words he needed.

It took nearly a full minute, but he finally answered. “I have informed Lestrade that I will take no new cases after the holidays.”

I stared at him, dumbstruck. He was retiring? He had said nothing before about retiring, despite the fact that neither of us were getting any younger. Even after my second leg wound and the aftermath of the Gruner case, he had not said anything. I looked around, seeing the cottage in a new light as I realized he was planning to move here.

He was leaving.

My hand cramped, and I looked down to see I had a white-knuckle grip on my stick. Forcing my fingers to relax, I fought not to react immediately. The decision was already made; he was merely informing me that I had only a few months to find rooms, to save money from our cases, to find a practice, because I could never imagine staying at our flat on Baker Street alone.

Alone. The thought slammed into me. He was leaving, and I would be alone again. I would be alone again, despite his promise so many years ago.

No, he hadn’t promised I would never be alone. He had promised he would never deceive me again. And he wasn’t deceiving me. He was simply leaving.

“Watson!”

I blinked, realizing that I was staring through the bench beneath me, my gaze as distant as my thoughts, and I looked up.

Holmes stared at me. He had apparently said my name several times before he caught my attention, if the worry in his gaze was any indication.

“Watson, I will not go back on my promise.”

Of course, not, I thought. He was not deceiving me, not breaking the promise he had made. He was merely notifying me that I would be alone again in a matter of months.

He studied me a moment longer, reading the thoughts I could not yet hide.

“Watson, you are not alone. Why are you crumpling as if you are?”

_Because I will be._

I took a deep breath, assembling the mask I had learned to use long ago, and I felt my expression relax into a mask of calm. He frowned, obviously seeing the mask go up even if I hoped he could not see through it.

“I shall begin looking for a practice to buy,” was my only reply, carefully said in a calm tone. I was gratified that none of the emotion coursing through me leaked out in my voice.

Confusion tinged his voice. “Why would you need to buy a practice?”

“I cannot afford our rooms al—” I halted mid-word, changing my phrasing, “I cannot afford to pay double my rent, and a practice will have attached rooms, anyway.”

“What does that have to do with—” He froze, understanding crossing his features. “Watson, the cottage has two bedrooms.”

I just looked at him. I knew the cottage had two bedrooms. What did that matter when he was moving here alone?

“Why do you think I brought you out here?” he asked.

I frowned, but answered, “To inform me of your plans to retire, keeping your promise not to deceive me again, and to soften it by showing where you will live.”

“Watson, I brought you out here in the hopes that you would retire with me.”

The words flowed out with an ease I would never have expected, and I stared at him again, this time making sure I had heard him right. He wanted us both to retire to Sussex? That was…more than surprising. How long had he been planning this, to have already bought a cottage and informed Lestrade?

“Why is it,” his rueful tone barely reached my ears, so quiet was it, “that so often when I try to surprise you, I end up hurting you, instead?”

I swallowed, trying to find the words that had fled at his statement. “You want us to retire? To Sussex?” My thoughts tried to recall a smaller cottage than the one behind me, and I gently nudged the memory away. I would indulge in it later.

He squirmed on the hard bench. “It is time to slow down,” he told me, and his gaze flicked to the cane in my hand, the cane that was almost always by my side after taking a second leg wound. I knew what he was thinking; I had thought the same after the Gruner case. We were getting old, slow, injured. We could not afford the slower reflexes in a career where every moment counted.

But to retire to the countryside? What would we _do_? Holmes despised inactivity, and I could not imagine leaving behind the informal practice I had established out of Baker Street.

“You are serious?” I asked, needing to hear him say it.

He nodded. “I am serious, both about retiring and about the two of us sharing the cottage. I grow tired of the legwork, and there has not been an interesting case in years.”

I looked down again, frowning in thought as the pain that had been building halted, then disappeared. He was not leaving. He was offering me a choice. What should I choose?

“Watson?” he asked quietly after a long moment.

I shook my head sharply. I had no answer for him yet. “I need to think.”

Purposely leaving my stick resting against the bench—a clear indicator that I would not go far, for I rarely went anywhere without the cane anymore—I limped my way past the edge of the meadow and out of Holmes’ sight.

The small stream was right where I remembered it from so many years ago, and I lowered myself down onto a rock at its edge, using the noise of the water as a ground for my thoughts.

Could I retire? _Should_ I retire? While I could admit to myself that Holmes’ cases _were_ becoming rather too much for me—I could no longer chase a man through the streets of London for any length of time—I still enjoyed the informal practice I had established through word of mouth. Could I give that up?

On the other hand, what would happen if I stayed in London? Holmes had made it clear that this was what he had decided. He was moving to Sussex, and I could stay in London, or I could come with him. If I stayed, was I condemning myself to the lonely existence I had endured before his return in ’94? He hated travel as much as inactivity. I would probably never see him unless I came to him.

But I could do that. Sussex was only a few hours by rail, and even closer if I ever got one of those new motorcars. It was no different than what we had done during my marriage.

My marriage. Mary. I had to factor that in, as well. My gaze drifted to the trees on the opposite side of the stream, my thoughts traveling to the small one-bedroom cottage that was probably less than a mile from where I had left Holmes, though well out of sight behind the trees. Would I want to live in a place that had so many memories, no matter if they were pleasant or painful? I had had enough trouble over the years when the memories of war occasionally came out of hiding. My memories of Mary were just as strong, though rather less horrifying, of course. Did I want to live where the breeze rustling through the grass on a sunny day could send me skipping through time?

The memory I had nudged aside returned, and this time I allowed it. A tremulous smile appeared as she stood in front of me once more, as I remembered her our last night before we had returned to London. It had only been a few months later that I had lost her and our child.

The ache of grief returned, no longer as biting as it had been in years past, but strong enough that I pushed any more memories aside. I needed to make a choice, not walk down memory lane.

Did I want to retire to the Sussex countryside, where my only occupations would be reading and keeping Holmes out of trouble?

Or did I want to buy a practice and stay in London for a few more years, relegating my friendship with Holmes to letters, telegrams, weekend trips around patients, and—if we installed a telephone—the occasional call?

Holmes found me some time later, staring blankly into the stream as I tried to come to a decision. Easily able to see that I was still thinking, he set my cane within reach and settled himself on the rock opposite me.

Silence reigned for several minutes before I broke it, now staring through the trees over his right shoulder.

“I do not think I am ready to retire, Holmes.”

Something crossed his face too quickly for me to identify. “If this is because—” he broke off, but I knew what he had been asking.

I shook my head. “No, this is not about that, though I am sorry for jumping to a conclusion.” A small smirk escaped. “I supposed that is one more proof that I will never be able to match you for deductions.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, not sure how to answer that. He had enough tact after all these years not to agree with me, but to deny the statement would be a compliment he would never say. My smirk widened, though my gaze never strayed from the trees behind him. Occasionally, I could glimpse a shape, and I was torn between wanting to see the small cottage and wanting to find a different spot.

Taking pity on him, I continued, “I have several working years left, and I have the beginnings of a practice in the informal house calls I have been doing from Baker Street. I would quickly grow restless, discontent, living out here. Frankly, I have no idea how _you_ plan to manage. You hate inactivity much more than I do.”

“Bees,” he interjected. I glanced at him, and he elaborated. “I plan to put a few hives in that meadow.”

I suppressed a shiver. That would be one more thing to get used to, when (not if, when) I finally joined him. I rather doubted he would ever get me close to the hives.

“We would be able to keep in touch,” I continued, brushing aside the idea of so many flying, stinging things so near the house, “and Sussex is only a few hours by train. I could easily come out for weekends, if you would have me, and you know you would be welcome back in London.”

“You are certain?” he asked, his tone solemn as he studied me.

I nodded, my gaze flicking back to that spot in the trees.

He caught it, of course. “You have been here before, have you not?”

I hesitated, then nodded, but said nothing.

“Does that have anything to do with it?”

I did not answer immediately, and he waited, watching me as I decided what to say.

“There is another clearing,” I told him, “through the trees that way, where a one-bedroom cottage sits. We spent several days there, late summer, 1893.”

He stilled, comparing my words with something, and I realized the cottage where we had stayed was one he had toured and thought about buying.

“I do not think I can live so close to that place, Holmes. Not yet. And I _do_ think it would drive me to Bedlam to have nothing to do.”

I looked down, picking at a spot on the rock. I hated the decision I was making, hated that we were going separate paths through my own decision. I could not put into words how much I dreaded the idea of living a stone’s throw from a place where Mary was alive in every whisper of wind, but I hated just as much the idea that moving would be the end. Holmes hated any form of regular communication. If he moved, and I stayed, would I ever hear from him again? I was not sure which was worse: growing bored in a place with so many memories, or condemning myself to the very thing I had thought he was doing a few minutes prior.

I fought to voice it before it took over, trusting him enough to be able to place the fear in the open. “You—” he looked up at me, and I tried again, “You…will keep in touch?”

His gaze softened. “No fear of that, old fellow. Mycroft has been pushing me to get a telephone.”

I relaxed slightly, seeing through the words to the reassurance that moving would not end our friendship. The distance would not matter as long as we could keep in contact, and if he had been hoping I would claim the second bedroom, I would never need worry about using the second bedroom for a few days at a time.

“I saw an article the other day for a practice on Queen Anne Street,” I mused quietly. I had noticed it in passing. Practices went up for sale frequently in different parts of the city, but Queen Anne Street was an area of town safe enough to draw patients but run-down enough many of my current patients would not hesitate to come. “I wonder what Mrs. Hudson is going to say when we tell her.”

“Hallelujah,” he deadpanned.

I laughed. “No, I meant about _me_ moving,” I tossed back. “She still hasn’t forgiven _you_ for destroying her curtains last month.”

He pretended irritation but refrained from the bantering conversation I had opened.

“Are you sure?” he asked again, studying me.

I hesitated. “No,” I admitted quietly, “but separate living arrangements need not interfere with contact, especially if you get a telephone. All the practices have them, now. And I meant what I said about coming out on weekends, if you’ll have me.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly asking if I really needed him to voice that, and I relaxed completely, the wordless reply more than enough.

Looking once more at the outline through the trees, I finally looked directly at him. He was staring at me, reading my every thought now that I had relaxed again.

“Shall we?” I asked, regaining my feet.

He joined me next to the stream and took my arm, and we slowly walked back toward the cottage, then on, to the station. He would need to plan any alterations the cottage would need before he moved in, and I needed to start perusing advertisements for a practice.

It was time to start a new phase in the lives we had built.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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